Sifting Through Last Night

Dark Poetry

What do I do with this last
scream that never preformed
its savage soliloquy,
that's burrowed here in
this nest where I keep it
fueled with fertile pain?


The sound it makes is the
sound of glass: an icy
shatter imprisoned in stillness.


And the quiet is the space
between us where the entire
night is stored away--
particles of moon,
cracked porcelain sky,
the stars that never
stirred me.


Return them with a word,
one word I would bronze
for eternity
or leave them as souvenirs,
to taunt the dreams
that create me.


Hell revealed its true name--
epitaph of innocence
that makes gravestones of
millions of lives.


That name is One,
legacy plucked from
Eden's limbs.


The tree of knowledge never
made me a god,
just someone who knows how
to scream
and write her name.


by Patricia Joan Jones

View patriciajj's Full Portfolio